


The Kiss of Caiaphas

by CalamityCain



Category: Jesus Christ Superstar - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Angst, Communication Failure, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder, Non-Consensual Bondage, Piano Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Rape Recovery, Revenge, Sexual Abuse, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:41:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24215368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalamityCain/pseuds/CalamityCain
Summary: After the man he loves is abused by one of the most powerful men in government, Judas knows he must uncover the truth and stop the transgressions that have taken place from destroying their relationship.
Relationships: Jesus Christ/Judas Iscariot, Joseph Caiaphas/Jesus Christ (Jesus Christ Superstar), Non-Consensual Pairings
Comments: 8
Kudos: 10





	1. The Lamb

> _He does not sit with silent men_
> 
> _Who watch him night and day,_
> 
> _Who watch him when he tries to weep_
> 
> _And when he tries to pray;_
> 
> _Who watch him lest himself should rob_
> 
> _The prison of its prey._
> 
> _He does not stare upon the air_ _Through a little roof of glass:_
> 
> _He does not pray with lips of clay_
> 
> _For his agony to pass;_
> 
> _Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek_
> 
> _The kiss of Caiaphas._
> 
> -Oscar Wilde (The Ballad of Reading Gaol)

The sky was always a dusty grey-blue at this time, hints of warm purple a harbinger of the coming heat. The air would be nice and crisp until the grey lifted and the warmth seeped in. That was when Judas would turn around and autopilot his way back home.

He had jogged, walked and ambled much farther than usual this particular morning, having risen two hours earlier. Restlessness gnawed at his insides. And the only cure was pushing himself to the limits until the screaming of his muscles were louder than what he was running from.

The well-worn path was one he took every morning without fail. He used to scoff at people who jogged religiously before discovering that it did wonders for pushing things you didn’t want to think about to the very back of your brain. Already his sneaker soles were worn; he could almost feel the gravel against his skin if he veered to the side of the road, every step more reluctant than the last. Something in his bones told him bad things were on the horizon. An unseen, unheard storm chasing him down like distant hellhounds.

He could not pin down the reason for his grave premonitions, and so he put more aggression into his run. The beat poetry streaming from his earbuds ended and the playlist switched to an instrumental piano piece.

It was the very same tune he had been playing when Jesus had walked into his life.

Judas’ talent for handling other people’s money was as prodigious as his passion was for the piano. From morning to evening on weekdays, he tallied funds and managed assets for multinational companies. From evening to the stroke of midnight, he was the piano man at the sort of bar that watered down its drinks but kept them cheap enough to keep the regulars coming. The tightness of his pants and the length of his hair unfailingly raised eyebrows when he introduced himself by his day profession. This amused him, and so he kept both.

Apparently it also amused the dark-eyed man whose soft wavy hair he itched to run his fingers through. The man he had found himself flirting with quite shamelessly through lingering gazes as he tickled the ivories, and then through the offer of a free beer (the better kind that came in a bottle).

“You don’t look like a financial manager,” he said.

“And you don’t sound like you belong in a dive like this. Not with that cultured debate club voice.”

Jesus laughed, suddenly shy despite being the centre of attention in his circle of friends before Judas had lured him away. “I don’t…come from money. Though I was lucky to get into a good college.”

“Scholarship?” Jesus nodded. “Well, good for you. You probably have standards now. Somewhere above the rank of washed-out pub pianist.”

“Don’t say that. You play wonderfully.”

“I’ll play something for you. Name it.” _If you’ll allow me the privilege of hearing you cry out my name in that debate club voice later,_ he didn’t say.

Jesus shook his head. “I already owe you for the drink.”

“You owe me nothing. But, since you mentioned it – ” Judas leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. A quick, stolen kiss, barely ten minutes into knowing each other’s first name. Instead of taking offense, Jesus’ light golden skin deepened with a flush that had nothing to do with alcohol. And Judas knew the man was his as he went back to the piano for his last round.

Present-day Judas sighed deeply. The gravel crunched beneath his feet. He wanted to kiss and tease and torment and fuck against a wall the Jesus he had met at that dive bar so long ago. Heck, he'd take the one who had begun drifting further from him too, if Jesus had been more willing to leave some room for him. Instead he had kept giving himself to the ever-consuming crowd, the poor and the hungry, that there was barely anything left for the man who waited to love him – who waited, and waited.

Goddamn activists and their martyr complexes, he thought; their selfless yet selfish hearts, their recklessness. _“I almost miss the days when you spent more time fighting me than fighting the police,”_ Judas had sang in one of his original songs that he spontaneously delivered over a piano in a slightly more upscale bar than the one in which they had met. Jesus had been present, and less than amused at the lyrics aimed like darts in his direction.

They had fought that night, naturally. They had fought about something yesterday too, but Judas could no longer remember what about. Perhaps the jog had pushed it to the back of his head.

But what he saw when he arrived at his doorstep would be much harder to forget. It would be etched into his memory, in great detail, for years to come.

“Caiaphas.” His skin prickled.

“Judas.” The man smiled. “Old friend.”

 _Not anymore._ Yet his tongue was frozen and the words went unspoken.

When he recalled the scene later, it would linger in his head like a Velasquez painting, subtle upheavals captured in a perfect composition and lit with the warmth of the morning. Caiaphas – tall, domineering, wearing a terrible smirk – commanding the foreground, staining the sanctity of their home. Some distance behind him was Jesus, eyes strangely downcast, his stance at once rigid and defeated.

“What are you…”

“Just stopping by to see how the two of you were doing. Can’t go a day in the ministry without hearing of Jesus the renegade. Jesus the saviour. A less merciful fellow would have had him arrested by now.” The fellow alumni of the institute Judas had graduated from clapped him on the shoulder as if they were still part of some old boys’ club. “Don’t worry, sport. It’s taken care of. But I’d keep your man in check if I were you.”

His doubtlessly expensive cologne was nothing short of obnoxious. Judas felt a faint wave of nausea when Caiaphas’ smirk deepened at his obvious discomfort. He stood rooted to the spot until the impeccably tailored figure had retreated into a shiny black sedan before firmly shutting the door.

“What was that about? What was _he_ doing here?” When Jesus stayed puzzlingly silent, Judas grabbed him by the shoulders. That was when he smelt Caiaphas’ scent all over his beloved, and felt immediately violated.

“He came to warn me. About the trouble I was in…the trouble I’d put you in.”

“And…?”

“And I did what I had to do. That’s all.” Jesus wriggled out of his grasp and walked away.

“What does that mean?”

Jesus gave no further answer, but escaped to the bedroom and flung the door shut in his face. There was a click of the lock. He banged fervently on it. “What does that _mean?”_

What he didn’t see, as soon as the door separated them, was Jesus hastily pulling the sheets off the bed. Sheets that smelt all too strongly of expensive cologne.

“Open the goddamn door,” Judas implored. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Jesus replied, keeping his voice steady as he frantically hid the sheets in the bathroom’s laundry hamper before pulling fresh ones over the mattress and pillows. “He won’t bother us again.”

“Stop talking in riddles,” Judas snarled.

Jesus sunk to the floor, leaning against the wall just inches from the door. He was tired and in pain and wanted nothing more than to throw it open, yet was afraid of what Judas knowing the truth would do. And so he waited until the footsteps on the other side faded away.

After a while, he could no longer hold back the tears. It hurt to keep his sobs silent, to stifle them in his lungs. It felt like drowning.

-AN HOUR EARLIER-

Jesus removed his clothes slowly, with trembling hands, as Caiaphas watched. Every inch of his skin burned with shame and with loathing even before the man laid a finger on him.

“Your sacrifice is greatly appreciated,” said Caiaphas. He leaned back on the bed, drinking in the sight of the renegade messiah participating in his own degradation. “And sacrifices must be made, in the name of a greater good. You of all people know that.”

Jesus said nothing as he lay down beside his enemy. His heart pounded rapidly despite its cold weight in his chest. “Give me some time,” he whispered when Caiaphas loomed over him. He closed his eyes and readied himself with his own fingers, knowing he must be thorough, knowing that the man would not be gentle. With closed eyes he could almost imagine it was Judas who was about to take him. But that expensive scent – one that Judas would never wear in a million years – was pervading his senses, mocking him.

His eyes were still shut when he signalled that he was ready to submit. But then Caiaphas issued his next command. “Look at me, Jesus. King of the Jews.”

When he did not promptly obey, a hand clamped painfully around his neck until he was forced to gasp for air. “Open your eyes, young lord. Remember what your precious riots have cost you. The next time your name reaches the streets, and our ears, I may just bring my boys along for the party.” He smiles benignly. “And make your beloved Judas watch.”

 _Where_ are _you, Judas? You should be back by now._ The room began to spin as he choked beneath the ruthless grip that would surely leave bruises of shame that betrayed his secrets, the mark of another’s sin on his skin.

 _Did I drive you away? You’ve given up on us, haven’t you? You’ve given me up._

By the time he was allowed to breathe again, his surrender was truly complete. He felt the flickering light of hope go out for good.

_You left me to pay the price for what we’ve done – or failed to do._

Jesus stared at the ceiling for most of it. Once or twice he flinched; he was right to predict that Caiaphas would have little mercy. But in the end, it was the wrongness of the flesh pressing against him and the feeling that _he_ was to blame that hurt the most. Every illicit touch, every time the cruel hands bruised and squeezed and savoured him, felt like another secret he could never wash away. When he felt the sticky warmth between his legs soiling him, he nearly threw up. Caiaphas’ threats were burned into his head long after the ordeal ended.

But his humiliation did not end after he was clothed once more. He found himself being led to his own kitchen like a lamb to slaughter, even if all that was asked of the lamb – in perfectly civil tones, as if they had just wrapped up a business luncheon – was a cup of coffee. “Freshly brewed, if you please.”

And after what he had already been through, what difference did it make?

He found he was wrong. The normalcy of the situation was even more upsetting than the violation that had taken place in the bed he shared with Judas. He could barely stop his hands from shaking as he witnessed them moving in otherwise standard autopilot, pouring beans and pressing the right buttons without thinking. All the while Caiaphas had sat at his kitchen counter with a pleasant smile, knotting and adjusting his tie while waiting to be served.

The perversity of the whole situation drove him briefly to dissociation. For a few merciful seconds, he felt divorced from his own body, floating a few inches above the person he used to be. But he came crashing back into his flesh-and-bone cage when he heard Judas at the door.

That was how he came to be standing in the kitchen, his own drink untouched and gaze averted as if he was the guilty intruder, when Judas arrived and everything threatened to crumble.

Judas was at the piano, playing absently as he sometimes did when he was troubled, familiar tunes pouring from his fingertips without him needing to think about the notes. He found his mind wandering to the day he and Jesus moved in together. This aging but sturdy baby grand had been the first thing they hauled into the house.

 _"_ _I need you to move to the left a little. No,_ my _left.” His back was already starting to ache._

" _You’re in the – you’re blocking the doorway.”_

_“Blocking? With what?”_

_“With your own shoulder. You need to move an inch or so…”_

_“Well, I can’t move if you don’t!”_

_“Alright, calm down.”_

_"_ _Watch it –_ watch _it!”_

_"_ _Sorry.”_

_“That was my_ foot!”

He smiled at the memory. Despite being worn out after all the moving, they had fucked on top of the piano that very night.

He loved the traces of the blushing schoolboy that Jesus could never quite rid himself of: the deeply ingrained modesty that clashed with the lust in his eyes, his quickening breath, when Judas slipped a hand beneath his shirt to tease his bare skin. Unlike Judas’ own fairly privileged upbringing, Jesus had been subject to a series of strict missionary schools that were his only means out of a household perpetually toeing the line between hardship and utter penury. Few things brought Judas more pleasure than fucking the devout student right out of Jesus until he was reduced to a bliss-ridden mess wearing a contented smile.

 _We should really start putting this piano to use again,_ he thought. _If the martyr I had the misfortune to love doesn’t end up in goddamn jail, or – or –_

He refused to pursue the train of thought that was about to follow, instead throwing himself into a particularly complex arpeggio. Halfway through a series of intricate chords, he felt Jesus sitting down beside him. His fingers faltered, the last few notes dropping awkwardly out of existence.

Neither of them said a word in the silence that followed. Then Jesus lowered his head till his breath was brushing Judas’ shoulder. “I was never unfaithful to you,” he whispered. “Not for a second.”

“Why would you say that?”

Instead of answering the question, Jesus only said: “You never need doubt me. I just want you to know…”

With sudden fierceness, Judas pulled him in and buried his face in that soft dark hair. They clung to each other for a long while.

“I don’t want to go to that stupid conference,” Judas murmured, referring to the trip he would be obliged to take in a week’s time. _I’d rather stay and take care of you, you dumb bitch of a mess._ He kissed Jesus’ soft lips, felt them gasp and part needily around his, and they continued kissing deeply as if drawing breath from each other.

“I’ll be alright,” Jesus said when they finally parted. “I’ll be a good boy. Stay on the right side of the law, and all that.” He smiled with more assurance than Judas knew he felt.

“Promise me, you stupid bastard,” he said.

“I promise, asshole.”

Judas did not go running even once that week. The night before he left, they did on the piano what they had done those years ago, with minor variations. With Jesus naked and spread out on the mahogany, Judas took that eager sex into his mouth and didn’t stop till they were both deprived of air yet utterly filled with warmth and with the joy of each other. Both of them were so insatiable that the instrument needed a good cleaning after they were done.

The memory of that night would be all the sweeter for the bitterness that was to follow. And they clung tighter to each other as if a dark unspoken portent hung in the air above.

*

When he was not dividing his time between running food drives and fighting for freedom of the press, Jesus occasionally repaired furniture on the side – chairs, shelves, tables, and once an exquisite antique jewellery box. His customers loved him because he usually ended up making them better to the point where they became entirely new pieces.

On the day the ringing doorbell took him by surprise, he was applying the last layer of varnish onto a formerly cheap, shoddy stool that he had taken the liberty of adding structural reinforcements to. Nearby, two worn cabinets stood waiting their turn to be reincarnated beneath his magic touch.

‘What day is it?” he muttered to himself. Judas was not due back until tomorrow. Or had he lost track of time? His heart was light at the prospect of being surprised. Their last night together had reignited something he had thought was lost, and he was nothing if not keen to pick up where they had left off.

“You’re home early,” he exclaimed as he threw open the door. Then his smile froze in place as something inside him wilted and died.

The two men before him wore matching leers along with their coordinated dark grey coats. Caiaphas was accompanied by a man Jesus had only seen on screen in the news: a short, pasty, squinty-eyed personage with an oily smugness permanently embedded into his features. The both of them shouldered their way in effortlessly before he could stop them. He felt as if he was moving underwater; his breathing was laboured, numbness spreading through his limbs.

“Jesus. You’re looking well.” Caiaphas gestured to his partner. “I don’t believe you’ve been acquainted with my colleague, Annas. He certainly knows _you_ , if only from a distance.”

“I haven’t been involved in any…You can’t implicate me…” Fear and hate and confusion made him stumble over his own words.

“We can’t? Indeed. Then how do you explain this?” Caiaphas held up his phone (which, Jesus could not help noting, was _the_ most egregiously priced model on the market) on which was displayed a rather damning photo. Providing a dramatic backdrop to a recent rally against the alleged theft of pension funds were ten-feet-high banners of his own face, printed in angry crimson and black.

“I did not authorize that,” he said softly. It was the truth. “I’m not even remotely involved in this particular movement. Or any movement since we made a deal, if you recall.” His voice hardened indignantly.

“And I am sure you are not responsible in the least for the popularity of your image,” Annas said. His voice was unpleasantly high-pitched; it grated on the nerves.

“If someone uses a picture of you without your knowledge and consent, does the blame fall on you?”

“Come now, Jesus. You must understand we have a duty to the public. We cannot overlook such…dangerous influences as yourself.” Caiaphas loomed over him. He glared back, refusing to appear intimidated. “Unless you have some airtight alibi as to your whereabouts on Wednesday at, say, five-ish to seven in the evening.”

“Would you believe me if I said I was busy fixing an armchair?”

“Ah yes, the carpenter king.” Annas smiled broadly. “A friend of mine has a nightstand I believe you made.”

“And can you show us this armchair? Not that it’s solid proof, mind you.”

Jesus shook his head. “The owner picked it up yesterday.” He suddenly wondered if he should show them the stool and two cabinets instead, and bit back the sort of incredulous laughter that only arises under extreme duress.

Caiaphas’ signature smirk widened as he stroked Jesus’ cheek in a frighteningly intimate manner. The manicured fingers traced his lips, his clavicle, until he felt like he might as well be naked before their combined predatory gaze.

“You know what must be done to protect your friends,” the man whispered. “Peter. Simon. Mary. James. And of course, your beloved Judas Iscariot.” Each name sounded like a death sentence.

“They are innocent,” Jesus said. “I warned them off. _We had a deal,”_ he emphasized through clenched teeth.

“Well. In light of new updates to the situation, we shall have to revise our little…contract.” Without a pause, the invasive fingers began undoing the buttons of his shirt right there in the living room. He closed his eyes to hide the hot tears forming against his will, but he could not stop his face from burning or his breaths from turning into the shallow panting of a cornered animal. All the while he felt Annas’ loathsome stare travelling all over him, marking and defiling him.

“No pleas for mercy from the great Jewish hero?” came the high-pitched taunt. “Will the saviour not attempt to save himself?”

 _Would it make a difference?_ he thought miserably. _What would they have me do instead – crawl on my knees, lick their shoes clean?_

His pride would not let him beg. Instead it let them lead him to the bedroom like a cow to the slaughterhouse. When Annas brought out the leather cuffs, he shivered but did not give them the pleasure of a struggle. They tied each wrist to a bedpost and spread him out facedown, beholding him with no little pleasure. Then he saw the polished silver-topped walking cane Caiaphas was wielding, and his heart truly sank.

“Silence him, Annas. No point in disturbing the neighbours.”

A silk handkerchief was wedged between his teeth and knotted securely behind his head. He saw the cane come down, and was powerless to stop it.

The first blow knocked the breath clean from his body. He had expected a bruising hit, but not the shockwaves that rippled through his every rib. By the fifth blow he could have sworn half of them were shattered. By the seventh he could no longer refrain from whimpering into the gag. By the tenth he was screaming.

After the eleventh, he stopped counting.

In the haze of pain following the last swing of the gleaming black rod, it took some time to register the sensation of slicked fingers violating him, making way for what was to come. It still hurt when he was penetrated to the twisted rhythm of Annas’ grating voice interwoven with Caiaphas’ deep unctuous tones, but a part of his mind had burrowed deep into a dark, soundless place where nothing could reach. He barely heard what they were saying as they took turns ravishing him and filling him with their foul spend. No doubt his stifled cries of anguish pleased and sated them. But how long until they came back for more?

“We trust you will keep our liaison a secret,” Annas said after they were done with him, in the kind of voice used to pleasantly conclude business arrangements. “In return, the names of your dearest compatriots will be wiped from our records.”

“Our silence for yours,” added Caiaphas, already fully dressed. He tucked the cursed walking cane into the depths of his coat. They removed his restraints; it seemed to make little difference. He could do nothing but lie there unmoving.

Long after they left, he lay there like one already dead.


	2. The Lion

Judas did not consider himself vain, but he had to acknowledge – with a somewhat lengthy appraisal before the nearest reflective surface – that his skills with a shaver had improved. What was left of his ginger-blond beard was an improvement to his face, as opposed to the scruffy mess that had always earned a raised eyebrow from his boss. This time he had actually been complimented on his efforts.

He refused to do anything about the hair, though (aside from wash it).

But he realised that he was glad, even proud, that he looked good. Despite regularly mocking the phenomenon of selfie-hungry Instagrammers, being apart from Jesus just as their relationship was on the mend had caused him to slide into the habit of sending a picture of himself a day. More often than not accompanied by the message _“Send nudes.”_ Like a goddamned teenager, he would find himself snapping his own mug from different angles until he found the most flattering one to send.

In return, he got a string of suitably adorable selfies. And one nude.

But not today. Something was _off,_ if the sudden silence from Jesus’ end was anything to go by. Had he said something to make him mad? The man had pulled this shit before in the past, back when they were wading through a rough patch caused by his stubbornly argumentative nature and by Jesus’ stubbornly passive-aggressive tendencies. The latter would go silent and distant for ages, the emptiness punctuated on occasion with a remark all the more stinging in its vagueness.

His gaze wandered back to the sad assemblage of unanswered texts for the fiftieth time in the past five minutes.

_Be home soon, asshole._

_Want me to pick up a bottle from the airport? The usual._

_What are you doing – taking a three-hour bath? Did you drown??_

_I’ll be back in about an hour & half. You’d better look pretty._

_Love you._

He scrolled back up, then back down, as antsy as a junkie without his fix. It took tremendous effort to stem the rush of terrible possibilities running through his mind, each one ending with his boyfriend dead. He gripped the armrest of the uncomfortable plane seat through a rather rough landing that barely distracted him from his mounting anxiety. Something had gone wrong…just as everything had been going right.

After more than a day, he still hurt all over, every third breath labouring to enter his lungs. At some point – he could not recall when – he had managed to drag himself into the shower, to clean himself and pull on clothes, all while on the verge of passing out from the pain and from the relentless pounding in his head. Now he lay as cold and heavy as a headstone on a grave sinking deeper and deeper into the damp earth.

The bedroom door swung open. Faintly he heard Judas calling his name, sounding like a dream, a floating disembodied voice somewhere above his head. When he answered, his own voice sounded like a half-dead ragged thing that had been dragged through shattered glass. Judas’ face was inches from his now. The man’s eyes were wide, frantic, a hand on his forehead, feeling for a fever. “You look like shit” were the only words he could make out.

“…feel like shit,” he croaked in reply. “I’m sorry – ”

_Sorry that I never told you the truth. Sorry that I never might._

_What happened?_ Judas’ lips were moving, but everything was already fading away.

“I was never unfaithful,” he managed to whisper just before passing out in Judas’ arms. “Not for a second.”

*

From the moment Judas had stepped inside, he had felt the sanctity of home replaced with the dread of an alternate reality. Everything was silent, dead, with the disquieting sensation of a place where time had stopped.

He called out to announce his presence. There was no answer. That was when a dizzying chill gripped his chest and made him nearly keel over with the weight of his worst expectations. He found himself stumbling mindlessly from corner to corner, thinking he would find Jesus mysteriously dead behind the kitchen counter, or under the toilet sink. When he burst into the bedroom, his heart had stopped for two whole seconds as he saw a pale unmoving body grotesquely mocking him by taking the form of his beloved.

Then Jesus’ lifeless eyes blinked and met his. He dropped to his knees by the bed.

He looked _terrible._ Despite bearing no signs of illness or disease, and a reasonably steady pulse, he was cold and bloodless and had the aura of one who longed for death. He looked exhausted and every movement appeared to be a struggle.

 _“I was never unfaithful.”_ He had said that right after…on the same day that Caiaphas had…

Judas’ heart seized. He gripped the edge of the bed until his knuckles turned white. Demonic whispers ( _you know what happened you know the truth you_ know) tickled his skin and pushed goose bumps from his neck, his clammy forearms.

A half hour later he was pacing the entire length of the living room, Jesus unconscious on the sofa. Judas had given up smoking some time ago; his fingers were twitching now the way they had not twitched in over a year. With not a single cigarette in the house, he had to fall back on the half-full bottle of amber liquid in the back of their cabinet.

It was only after two shots of bourbon had burned his mind back to clarity that Judas thought to check beneath Jesus’ clothes. He appeared to be sleeping peacefully now, at least, some colour returning to his face. He shifted the unmoving limbs as gently as he could – there seemed to be nothing broken so far, but you never knew – and pushed up the soft threadbare flannel.

What he saw made him go cold all over again. A mass of bruises and half-healed contusions adorned Jesus’ back from the shoulders down like a grotesque impressionist painting. Dark red-purple poppies amid clouds of stormy grey. “What did he do to you?” he said in a strangled whisper. Then, in a guttural cry of rage: _“How could you let him??”_

Jesus stirred awake with a soft groan. “Judas…”

“I shouldn’t have – forget I said that. It couldn’t…it wasn’t your fault.” He pulled the shirt back down and shifted Jesus back into a comfortable position, adjusting the pillows beneath his head. He barely noticed that his face was wet with tears.

“I had no choice. He didn’t come alone.” Jesus reached out, anxious for the comfort of his touch. Judas took his hand and locked their fingers together. “I was stupid and…and frightened. When they threatened you and Mary and Peter and the rest, I was…” His voice broke. “I thought it was the only thing I could do.”

“What _did_ you do?” _What did you let them do?_

Before he could stop himself, he blurted: “You promised. Before I left. You promised things would be alright.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted it and started to apologize, clumsily. He had never been good at apologies. But Jesus was fading away again. His eyes fell shut, his breathing slowed. Judas held on to his hand until it went completely limp before letting it go, placing it tenderly on the chest that rose and fell with the meagre assurance that he was safe from death if nothing else.

*

_I’ll be alright._

Jesus did meet his promise, eventually – or try to. One overcast morning, three days after he had been found lying lifeless and broken, Judas entered the kitchen to find him sitting at the counter with a half-empty mug, listening to music. He plucked an earbud out to kiss Jesus on the cheek. The latter’s eyes lit up with some of their old warmth.

“Tomorrow, if you’re well enough, we can go hunt for that guitar you’ve been meaning to buy,” Judas murmured while nuzzling his neck.

“I’d like that,” Jesus said with a smile. “We can play together again. You on the piano.” He got up to refill his coffee and the smile faltered as he stumbled dizzily and fell into Judas’ arms. “Shit.”

“You need to start eating properly. Sit the fuck down, I’ll make some toast.” Judas had been trying to push as much food down him as he could without hurting him, with limited success. Jesus seemed torn between clambering back to being fully himself and retreating behind the wall of secrecy that had never truly gone away since the day Caiaphas had stained the walls of this house with his presence. The climb back to health was a hard one. But he didn’t give up, which seemed to be a good sign.

He did his best with the whole-wheat that Judas generously slathered with peanut butter, finishing a whole slice slowly but steadily. He did not throw it up the way he had most of yesterday’s dinner.

Filled with the warmth of accomplishment and hope, Judas was washing the dishes when he heard the crash of Jesus’ coffee mug. He whirled around to see Jesus trying to pick up the ceramic pieces with trembling hands. “Leave it. I’ll do it.” Jesus complied, collapsing against the base of the counter as if all the strength had been knocked from him. He looked suddenly pale and sick again.

As Judas stood holding what was left of the broken mug, his eyes caught the picture on Jesus’ phone screen. It was part of a news article about some PR campaign or other. He felt his blood boil, rushing to his head, spilling out in angry breaths as he beheld Caiaphas’ confidently smiling face next to that squinty-eyed sycophant of his whose name Judas could not remember.

Dropping the gathered shards on the counter top, spilt coffee forgotten, he helped Jesus to his feet and half-carried him to the living area, setting him down on the nearest armchair. He knelt there and held Jesus’ shaking hands, trying to rub warmth back into the icy fingers.

“You need to tell me what happened,” he said. “It won’t end until you tell me everything.”

Jesus inhaled raggedly. “I did what I had to do. Willingly.”

“Bullshit. Stop trying to protect me from the truth.”

“That _is_ the truth.” Jesus lifted his eyes at last to meet his glare with equal intensity.

_“Bullshit!”_

Jesus started shaking even more violently, and he regretted his temper, cradling his head and kissing him. “I’m sorry.”

After a long while, Jesus said softly: “They’re out of town. They won’t be back for about two weeks. That’s…what I read. What I managed to…”

“And they’ll be back eventually. And then what?” Judas cradled his head, hating how the very sight of that maggot had reduced Jesus to a trembling wreck.

“I don’t…I don’t know. I did what was asked of me. What more can I do?” Jesus buried his face in Judas’ chest.

Judas drew a deep breath to steady himself. “You can tell me everything,” he said.

And, finally, Jesus did.

\- TWO DAYS LATER-

Judas had vowed never to run from him again. But this time, Jesus urged him onward with a perfunctory kiss. Perhaps his company had become oppressive. Perhaps Jesus had reached out for his strength and love and found him lacking. As usual, he had trouble being forthright, and Judas would never know for sure.

“Go,” he said, his breath soft on Judas’ cheek. “No one is coming. I’ll be fine.”

 _That’s what you said the last time,_ Judas thought. “Lock the doors. Don’t let so much as a cat in.” Before he left, he reached out to caress Jesus’ cheek, cherishing the flutter of the black long lashes against his fingers like a moth he could not hold for long without breaking.

“I love you,” he said. His words were met with a silence that seemed to follow him all the way down his familiar trail.

The gravel crunched beneath his feet. A restless drumbeat poured from his earbuds, echoing the turmoil in his gut, the howling in his heart. This time he would run until his muscles screamed louder than the pain of the truth he had so insistently extracted.

He had not cried then. When Jesus had described the details of each violation, how he had been intimidated and used, blackmailed and battered, he had not shed a single tear. Instead he had reacted in the worst way possible: by walking away. Not trusting his own rage, nor the all-consuming wave of guilt that made his dry eyes burn and his trembling hands curl into fists, the sensation that he might break something or shatter the wall right next to Jesus’ head. All the while the demons hissed and howled in his ears: _you knew what happened you_ knew _the truth you knew all along._

Only later did he make up for it, orbiting his beloved like an anxious fly, ensuring his every need and want was taken care of. But despite the lack of resistance, Jesus had already sealed part of himself off. He knew when the wall was up; knew it by experience from all their previous fights, the cold wars that could last for days.

He feared that this one might last their whole lives.

This was it, then: his punishment for deserting the man he loved most in the hour of greatest need. And who between them suffered more for it?

_Run all you want. You can’t run from yourself._

That night in bed he had made an attempt at intimacy, touching and stroking and kissing that soft dark hair he had fallen in love with from their first day together. Jesus had gone rigid and cold, not quite pulling away, but signalling all too clearly what he felt. They had fallen asleep with a wedge of unspoken misery between them.

Somewhere in the dark hour before dawn, he had awoken to the sound of quiet tearless sobbing. As he reached out to clasp the trembling shoulder, he could just make out the words: “…you left me.”

“Babe. I didn’t mean to…What I did, it was stupid – ” Each word he said sounded impotent, meaningless.

“You could barely _look_ at me.”

“I love you more than anything in the wo – ”

“Leave me alone.” Jesus’ voice was laced with hardness now, meant to hurt Judas the way he had been hurt. “You’re good at that.”

_Run from what you have done. Betrayer. Deserter._

At some point his legs turned to soft rubber and his heart could give no more. He fell to his knees, heedless of the road cutting into them. He stared at the desolate blue-grey sky and roared in anguish till his throat was raw.

After all the wind had rage had left his lungs, he let his head drop till it was inches from the rough ground. “You’re a fool. A useless fool.” He wept freely now, tears running down his face, chilled by the wind. “He gave up his body and his soul for you. You should give up your _life_ for him. Your worthless life.”

After a minute or so, during which a bicyclist passed him by and stared at him oddly – at this broken kneeling man – his head slowly cleared. It was clear what must be done to erase the long shadow of Caiaphas and his minions from their lives.

He still smelt that cologne in his dreams sometimes. This dream in particular had him standing naked before a boardroom full of suited men, that terrible scent soaking into his hair, his skin. He could not be separated from it; every inch of him stank of the man, proclaiming to all who he had been marked by. Who he belonged to. Someone’s hand crept down his back; another prodded and stroked him in ways meant to defile and degrade.

An old man with a kindly face gestured to the long table stretching down the length of the room. “Why don’t you take your rightful place, Jesus?” His voice was a monstrous hiss – at odds with his soft smile – and his eyes were suddenly cold and gleaming.

Like a mindless automaton he did what they wanted of him, lying on the hard wooden surface. The harsh white lights above peeled him bare to the bone. Then its glare was partially obscured by the faces bent over him. Studious faces, sombre, analytical faces, a few even benign at a glance. But all of them had hungry eyes.

From somewhere above he heard the high mocking sing-song of the despicable Annas. Then Caiaphas, master of ceremonies, said in a voice like a death knell:

“Let the feast begin.”

Then the men’s lips peeled back to reveal rows upon rows of sharp teeth as they descended upon him with glee.

He jerked awake, cold with perspiration. He did not realise he was crying, that his every breath was a painful sob until Judas’ arms enveloped him. “Shush. It’s alright. You were dreaming.”

“I can’t stop dreaming,” he whispered, his head still foggy, still hanging on to remnants of the nightmare. “Make it stop.”

Judas’ lips were on his forehead, his cheeks, fingers rubbing soothing circles into his neck. “I’ll make it stop. I won’t leave this time.”

“Their teeth…they’re coming.”

“Open your eyes, babe. There’s only me here. My teeth are normal. See?” Jesus’ eyes fixated on Judas’ face for a few seconds before fluttering shut again, reassured that the monsters had not followed him into waking. He sighed and buried his face in Judas’ chest, desperate for the closeness . The latter stroked his hair and rubbed his back until his breathing slowed and sleep crept up on him again.

“I need to stay awake,” he murmured heavily.

“No, you don’t. I’m here. If the nightmares come, I’ll wake you. Alright?”

“Mmm.” Jesus made a last attempt at wakefulness, but his weakened body and a row of restless nights were taking their toll.

“I’ll take care of you. Of us. I promise."

*

Judas made more than one promise that night. The other he kept in his heart, nestling like a cold stone egg that would hatch and release its fire when the time came.

The lion had been awakened. And it roared for revenge in blood.

He began with a series of casual get-togethers with old friends from the ministry, whom he had kept in touch with despite having left their close-knit little club after it began leaving a bad taste in his mouth. His scheming side must have known their acquaintance would be of use one day. Over a couple of overpriced brunch cocktails, he learnt the movements of the men and women ostensibly in charge of keeping the peace, at any price.

None of these former colleagues thought Judas’ sudden courtship out of the usual. None of them were new to being charmed for a favour or two from the upper echelons of the ministry. But it so happened that his best lead was also the toughest obstacle: the queen blocking his path to the checkmate.

“I don’t need a direct line to him,” he said to the icy blonde he had once dated briefly as she swirled a mimosa. “Nothing so tasteless as that. I just need to know when’s a good time to…you know, get my foot in – ”

“You want to know his movements.” She shot him a smile over the rim of her glass. It did not reach her eyes.

“Always so sharp. Now I remember why I fell in love with you.” He smiled glibly back.

“You’d have a better chance reaching Annas. Get in his books and you’re practically there. I can set you up once he’s back.”

“Don’t play me like that, Nico. You have direct access to the man.”

“And what do I get in return?”

He held up his palms. “I’m already buying lunch. And as many of those as you can hold.” He nodded at her nearly empty mimosa glass.

She wrinkled her nose at it. “It’s not very good. I have standards, Judas.”

“Name them, then.”

Her cool eyes ran all over him, head to toe, making clear her proposal. “You still look good. I’d like to see if the rest is as good as I remembered.”

“I can show you my dick piercing.”

She laughed, an attractive throaty sound. “Show and tell will get you to that bootlicker Annas at best. Give and take, on the other hand…” Her gaze lingered on his inked upper arms, his thighs that were toned from all the running and that showed themselves well in his tight jeans.

Judas knew he risked going in over his head if he accepted. But then again, in for a penny. Nico already knew too much. To leave her displeased at this point in the game was an unwise risk.

"I don't actually _have_ a dick piercing," he said as they left the café. "In case you were looking forward to one."

He could not say the encounter was entirely regrettable; if anything, the sex turned out to be surprisingly good. He had not realised how hungry he was for physical intimacy even as guilt weighed heavy on his heart ( _your beloved is in distress and all you can think of is your own unfulfilled needs,_ hissed the demons). It didn’t take long for Nico’s icy exterior to give way to a thrumming, powerful warmth. Entangling his limbs with hers felt like riding a Harley made of supple flesh and taut curves. They went at each other enthusiastically, with an aggressive yet easy playfulness that Judas so sorely missed, the illicit nature of their coupling only intensifying their pleasure.

“If he wasn’t such a saint, I’d get you to invite your man along the next time,” she said when they were done, stretching out like a lioness beside him. “Assuming a next time isn’t a bad idea.”

“My man…?”

“Mmm. A threesome with Jesus, King of the Jews. I’m getting wet again just picturing it.”

He sat up. “Who told you we were – ”

“Fucking? Please. If Caiaphas knows, then so does half the ministry. You don’t ride on the arm of the great insurgent of our time without people taking notice.”

“Yeah…look, Nico. On the subject. I need to know that you’ll treat this like it never happened.”

She smiled broadly, and this time her eyes twinkled. “No one does discretion like I do.” Sliding off the bed languidly, she started dressing. “I suggest we leave separately. But first, your payment. For services satisfactorily rendered.” She winked.

After giving him the information he sought, she left without looking back. He waited fifteen minutes before exiting the hotel room. No one in the vicinity cared to look at him twice…save for the young man who watched him with a shrewd, hooded gaze before disappearing around a corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nico’s name is derived from Nicodemus, one of the Pharisees mentioned in the New Testament, who ends up being sympathetic to Jesus and his followers.


	3. The Kill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song lyrics in this chapter are from 'Gravity' by Sara Bareilles (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f_hEbu92HYY)

When he came home from work and was met with silence, the familiar dread turned his fingers to ice before he found Jesus in the shed they had converted into a makeshift workshop, fixing new hinges on the door of a beautiful antique armoire. Relief flooded his chest.

“Hey. I was thinking of making dinner. Do we still have pasta in the drawer?”

Jesus’ fingers froze in the midst of driving in a screw. He turned slowly to face Judas. His eyes were full of raw hurt.

“Babe…what’s wrong?”

“I just want to know,” Jesus said in a voice quivering with pain and rage, “when you were finally going to tell me.”

“What – ?”

Judas felt a hard object hit his chest with a stinging _thwack._ He caught Jesus’ phone and stared at the screen, and his heart sank to a place somewhere below his knees. A series of what could only be described as incriminating photos – the kind used to sell rubbishy tabloids about celebrities – showed him entering a certain paid-by-the-hour hotel shortly after Nico’s svelte figure disappeared behind its doors, and emerging after the deed had been done. He noted with chagrin that his fly appeared to be half-zipped.

“I suppose it’s my fault for turning you down,” Jesus continued, full of bitterness. “For being unable to…to _accommodate_ you after what happened. How dare I be so selfish, thinking only of myself?”

“Stop talking like that. You know it’s not true.”

“Or maybe you couldn’t stand being with me for long. Knowing I’d been had by two other men. Perhaps you were wondering if I’d _enjoyed_ it – ”

“Stop it!” He tried to reach for Jesus, who pushed the cabinet door between them like a shield.

“Don’t come near me!”

Judas looked back down at the phone screen, scrolling upward until he saw the sender of those damning pictures.

“The little git…” he hissed. “I always knew Simon was a little stinker.”

Jesus’ face was flushed from straining to hold back tears. “So it _did_ happen.”

Judas stepped around the carved oak door. “If you knew why I did it – ”

“I don’t _care_ why you did it!”

Judas had to chase him out the shed and onto the porch, where he managed to catch one of his wrists. “Listen. Please.” The struggle did not last long; he still was not eating as much as he should, and the brief exertion left him panting. “I didn’t want to tell you this, but…I’m working on a way to end all of this. For good. And if…things go the way they should, we never need worry about Caiaphas or Annas, or any of them, ever again.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ll make sure they won’t come near you or – or harass you in any way possible. Ever again. That’s all you need to know. The less, the better. Trust me.” Judas released his grip and slid his hands upward to cradle Jesus’ face. “I need you trust me.”

“Do I have a choice?”

Judas had no answer, so instead he closed the gap between them with a kiss. Jesus pulled back despite fairly quivering with need. “Did you kiss her like that?”

“I never kissed her once. It was a transaction, nothing more.”

“I don’t know if I believe you.” He tried, half-heartedly, to push Judas away.

“Believe me.”

Jesus’ gaze was both angry and pleading. “Make me.”

“Alright, then.”

On impulse, Judas swept him right off his feet – savouring his soft exclamation of surprise – and carried him through the door, cherishing the way Jesus’ arms instinctively clung to his shoulders. He carried him all the way to the piano, setting him on the mahogany top. There they resumed their kiss: hard and urgent at first, then softening into slow lingering explorations. Judas slid a hand up Jesus’ shirt to gently prod at his back.

“It’s healing fine,” Jesus assured him. “Barely hurts anymore.”

They stayed like that for a long time: Judas leaning against the piano, his hips pushing against Jesus’, their arms wound around each other. “I was going to make dinner,” Judas murmured finally.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Did I ask if you were? I’ll shove the food into you myself if I have to.” Judas’ hands ran up and down his waist, concerned that he could feel the ridges of his ribs.

Jesus leaned in with parted lips, indicating it was not food he hungered for. After yet another kiss, Judas smiled and ducked under the piano. When he stood again, he held a large guitar-shaped package wrapped in brown paper.

“You didn’t – !” Jesus’ eyes lit up even as traces of misgivings flickered across his face, as if suspecting Judas of buying back his trust. Which, if Judas was being completely honest, was not entirely inaccurate.

“Open it.”

Jesus was silent for a full minute after unwrapping his gift. When he finally spoke, his voice was halting, as if speaking too soon would make the dream dissipate. “It’s the same one that…”

“That we saw in the shop window two years ago.”

The vintage guitar was beautifully crafted, its aged finish a cherry-brown hue deepening into black. Jesus strummed a few chords and sighed at the rich timbre of the notes lingering in the air. A halo of warmth that seemed, for a moment, to heal the wounds of the past.

“Play something.”

“What do you want me to play?”

Judas thought for a moment. “I don’t know if you remember, but – the day you lost your old guitar and were inconsolable about it, we were playing this together on the piano.” He slid in front of the piano and played the opening melody.

“I remember. You insisted I play with you, even though I suck at the piano.” He smiled. “You said it’d distract me from being a little bitch all day.”

Jesus tuned the strings until they were just right, tested a chord or two, trying to find the right octave. “I don’t know if it works as well on guitar.” After a few hesitant attempts, the notes began flowing, only occasionally pausing. At some point he began to sing softly, trying to recall the words.

_“You loved me because I'm fragile  
When I thought that I was strong  
But you touch me for a little while   
And all my fragile strength is gone”_

Judas played alongside him, letting instinct guide him on where to slide in between Jesus’ strumming and plucking. They both fumbled around the lyrics, one filling in the gap where the other stumbled, finishing each other’s lines.

_“I live here on my knees  
As I try to make you see   
That you're everything I think  
I need here on the ground_

_You're both my friend and foe  
And I cna't seem to let you go..."_

Judas grinned when they fell silent for a stretch and he couldn’t quite remember the tune. “I give up.” He improvised with a brief jazzy explosion.

“I know how it ends,” Jesus replied as he concluded with the final few notes.

_“Something always brings me back to you;  
It never takes too long.”_

It was one of those fleeting moments that, in memory, stretched on for eternity. Judas in front of the keys and Jesus cross-legged on top of the piano, strumming away. The late evening sun filtered through windows that needed dusting, gently warming their faces as music flowed through their fingers and spilt out their throats.

They both lost track of time; dinner ended up being stale bread and canned beans and tuna. The satisfaction Judas derived from seeing Jesus eat two whole sandwiches without struggle was soured when, in the midst of washing the dishes, he heard Jesus’ voice grow agitated during a phone call.

“I’m sure Simon’s intentions weren’t bad…I know he did it as a friend.” A pause. “I’m more concerned about what he’s been up to. About things getting…out of control. If he’s using me as a, a figurehead to represent _his_ ideals – not ours – ” Judas peeked into the living room area, where Jesus was pacing at an increasingly anxious rate. “I’m fine. But I made a…a deal. A promise. I can’t endanger anyone anymore.”

Then his frown was overtaken what looked like abject misery as he came abruptly to a halt. “I can’t. I…I just can’t, Mary. Don’t ask me why.”

He ended the call and threw his phone on the sofa, collapsing beside it. Judas gave him a few seconds before joining him. After a while, Jesus’ head fell onto his shoulder, seeking comfort if not answers.

“What do I tell them?” he whispered. “I’ll never be free of this.”

“Yes, you will.” Judas’ resolve hardened as his arm encircled Jesus’ slumped shoulders.

“Earlier…you said…” Jesus frowned. “You were going to end this. How?”

_You’ll be safer if you don’t know._ Judas knew he would never be able to speak of what he was going to do until it was done, so he kissed Jesus on the forehead and said: “Trust me.”

Uncertainty flickered in his eyes. “And the woman you were with – she’s part of this?”

“Not anymore. And I’ll never contact her or see her again, if that’s what you want. Not even as a friend.” He shrugged. “We were never that good friends anyway. Just say the word and she’s gone.”

Jesus shook his head, soft waves framing his face in a way that made Judas want to ravish him thoroughly and then kiss him all over. “I can’t. I’m not like that.”

“Then trust me. Just this once. We’ll be free again.” Free from the long shadow of Caiaphas, whose transgressions they had paid the price for, and would keep paying no longer.

That night they made love for the first time in what felt like years. Jesus reached for him first, as if desperate to erase all traces of the intruder who had made her mark on him. His breath was hot and the way his thighs clung to Judas’ hips was nothing short of enflaming. Their coupling, dizzying and intense, felt all too brief – yet neither could complain for the haze of bliss it left them in. Their sleep was deep and undisturbed by nightmares. One calmed by the assurance of being loved, the other by the certainty of what must be done come morning.

*

Caiaphas studied his reflection in the men’s bathroom, exiting only after he was satisfied that his fatigue did not show on his smooth composed features. Long hours of travel never did agree with him. But the need for sleep was not quite strong enough to override his habit of arriving an hour early before his colleagues. Even with a nice private office, peace and quiet was a commodity these days. Before the clock hit nine, his phone and laptop would both be buzzing with

He straightened his already impeccable suit out of habit as he entered his office after putting in a request for his usual: long black, extra shot. “Make that two shots.”

To start his day on a bright note, he scrolled through one of the password-protected folders of images on his phone. He smiled at its gallery of contents. How sweet the flesh of the messiah – already he hungered for it again. The softness of those lips and the fierce eyes that in the end had turned fearful and submissive, like a deer in headlights. Perhaps the next time he should be made to kneel and learn how a mouth so skilled at spouting incendiary refrains to a hungry crowd could be put to better use.

The thought was enough to make him uncomfortably, pleasantly hard.

He was halfway through his emails when he heard the knocking. It was the janitor – vacuum cleaner in one hand and his coffee in the other. _Unusual,_ he thought as he pressed the button to unlock the door.

“Beg pardon, sir. Jakob was indisposed this morning. But someone told me this had your name on it, so I took the liberty.” The man walked with a slightly lopsided gait; his threadbare beanie was pulled so low his eyes were barely visible. Probably to hide some unsightly deformity. Caiaphas hesitated in taking the coffee from his hands – for all he knew they were of questionable hygiene – but his need for fuel and the aroma of good beans overrode his fastidiousness. He took a swig, savouring the robust bitterness coursing down his throat, through his veins.

“The cleaning schedule must have changed,” said Caiaphas as the janitor began vacuuming. “You’re not due for another two hours.” He got some unintelligible mutter in return, and shook his head. Some people really did deserve to be lodged firmly where they were. With such dull wits, they wouldn’t have the first clue what to do with a higher station.

A minute or so later, the whine of the vacuum began to grate on his nerves. He felt vaguely queasy, as if he had eaten something funny. “I must ask you to resume your work at some other time,” he called over the constant hum.

“Beg pardon?”

“Get out.”

“But, sir – ”

“Did I not make myself clear?” There it was again, but stronger: the feeling of needing to throw up. A burning sensation was now creeping up and down his gut.

“Sir, I was told expressly that I’d be suspended if I didn’t tick off my roster – ”

“Your negligence is not my problem, man. Get out or you’ll be jobless before the morning is…” There was something obstructing his airway. He expelled the blockage with a cough, only for another one to bloom in its place. An explosion of coughs soon spilled from his throat. All the while his stomach burned and burned, and a terrible pain crept through him, from his very bowels to the back of his eyeballs.

The janitor approached him slowly, but not with hesitation. The lopsided gait was gone. There was something awfully familiar about the glinting eyes that peered from beneath the ugly grey beanie. When it was pulled off, he felt his world tilt. His arms shot out but failed to break his fall when his fingers seized up in a grotesque parody of a stage performer’s jazz hands.

As he collapsed onto the carpet, Judas smiled down at him. It was a smile without humour, without mercy, and full of his imminent death.

“I know what you did,” he whispered, inches from Caiaphas’ paper-white face. “Every disgusting detail. Think on them as you choke on your sins.”

“Please,” he rasped. “Judas… old friend. You must help – you don’t want to kill me – ” A seizure overcame him, making him writhe like a fish in a net. When it was over, cold sweat had soaked through his shirt. “You don’t know the…the many ways…I could be useful to y – ”

A shark kick in the belly made his vision go red with pain. “Pathetic!” hissed Judas, aiming several more kicks into all the places it hurt. “That’s all men like _you_ will ever be useful for.” The foot drove right into his crotch, drawing a strangled scream. “A fat leech feeding other fat leeches. No more!”

Judas drew a few deep breaths before his vitriol abated. He straightened and pulled his disguise back on, collecting the half-empty coffee cup as well as the phone that he waved in Caiaphas’ face. “Don’t mind me, eh? Can’t take it with you after all.”

Caiaphas recalled at this moment his insistence that the surveillance cameras be removed from his office for reasons of privacy, and cursed himself roundly. He tried to call for help. But the office was still most devoid of life at this hour, and the only sounds he could make was that of a man for whom all hope was gone. The last thing he saw in life was the retreating back of what looked like a harmless old janitor dragging a vacuum cleaner with a hunched walk.

Judas’ heart rate slowly dropped to something resembling normal as he peeled off his outer layer of clothes to reveal another disguise: a hipster dressed in various shades of olive and grey with black-rimmed glasses and a mousy demeanour. The early hours Caiaphas kept ended up working in his favour; the men’s room was empty still, allowing him to wash the coffee mug thoroughly before dropping it in the paper bag that he meant to discard somewhere discreet.

“Fuck,” he whispered as the enormity of what he had done slowly sank in. _“Fuck.”_ He held up his hands, but they were surprisingly steady. And he knew then he had no regrets whatsoever.

He replaced the ratty old beanie with a newer one, making sure his hair was still secured in a bun and hidden away. The janitor’s clothing he stuffed into the paper bag. To complete the look, he hung a pair of headphones over his neck, their large earpads helping to partially obscure his face. Then he ambled out of the bathroom, avoiding eye contact with anyone until he was safely in the streets.

An hour after the most powerful man in the ministry of national security had breathed his last, a nondescript hipster rode most of the way home on on a stolen bicycle that would be returned before the middle-aged couple he had borrowed it from realised it had gone missing at all.

*

Jesus threw all his focus into thoroughly sanding the edge of the new cabinet door he had made from scratch, not stopping until the thin fabric of his well-worn shirt was thoroughly dampened with sweat. He had found woodworking meditative from the moment he had picked up a hammer as a ten-year-old boy. Now the smell of wood and varnish soothed him when little else could, while reminding him fondly of his late father.

He had been up early today, but not as early as Judas, who had slid soundlessly from his side while he was still deep in dreamless slumber and left only the briefest of messages. _Be back before noon._ He knew then that something unstoppable had been set in motion. Something that would change the course of their lives for better or worse.

But surely either outcome was preferable than being trapped in this limbo.

When he stood, he felt only the slightest ache, the echo of battered muscle and flesh. A quick look in the mirror yesterday told him that bruises were almost gone. Perhaps when the last greyish smear faded from his skin, the last of the nightmares would follow.

He was sweeping sawdust off the floor when there was a knock on the door of his shed. For one terrible moment his heart stopped as he thought of the man from his nightmares. Then the door swung open, and Judas stood before him.

The broom dropped with a clatter. _It’s done, isn’t it?_ he wanted to ask, not knowing if he wanted to know the answer. His heart, unfrozen, began pounding until it made him dizzy. He said nothing but fell gratefully into Judas’ arms.

“Someday,” said Judas, “when it’s safe to tell you everything, I will.”

“It’s over, then?”

A kiss on his cheek, his mouth. “It’s over."

Something inside him broke then, and he shuddered and wept unrestrainedly into Judas’ chest. Great ugly sobs that hurt as they emerged yet could not be stopped any more than the coming of a tsunami. He cried and cried until there was nothing left in him, and did not protest when Judas lifted him off his feet and carried him into the house. The strength that had manoeuvred a solid wooden slab easily just minutes ago was suddenly gone, leaving him a rag doll in the arms bearing him to safety.

At some point he must have passed out. He awoke on an armchair in the living room, feeling hollowed out and more than a little hungry. A reprimand was surely coming his way for failing to down more than coffee for breakfast. The thought of it actually warmed him.

He found enough strength to stumble to the kitchen area, where he found Judas taking apart a phone, its small gleaming parts scattered on a sheet of newspaper. Judas looked up and frowned, grabbing his arm to steady him.

“Here – sit down before you keel over. What did I tell you about eating actual food, idiot?”

Jesus smiled a little. Then his eyes widened as they roamed over the electronic bits, the familiar shape of the screen. “Is that…did you take…”

“Thought it safer. Don’t know what incriminating things one can find in a phone nowadays.”

Jesus folded his arms to hide his trembling hands. “He…he took pictures of me. The second time round.” Before this the memory would have brought hot tears of shame, but he was all dried out for now. “There were nights when I would wake up suddenly, remembering those pictures existed. Wondering when and where I would see them…” His voice sounded flat and unfeeling.

Judas said nothing, his features seemingly frozen for a second. Then he slammed the newspaper over the disassembled phone and crushed it into smithereens with his fists. Jesus closed his eyes and felt the vibrations through the kitchen countertop, the clink of mugs and condiment jars shaking at Judas’ fury. Heavy breathing filled the air. The rustle of crumpling paper, wrapping and safely obscuring what was left of the expensive device.

Then Judas’ hands were on his back, sliding down his shoulders, squeezing him in a fierce, reassuring hug that said what words could not.

By that afternoon, the first of the alarming tweets and live announcements would penetrate the cybersphere. By tomorrow, headlines printed in bold official ink and proclaimed in the authoritative voices of news anchors would follow, as would the investigations that would provide further thrilling fodder for weeks to come. Somewhere along the line, the famously power-hungry Annas would be implicated and find himself in a tangle of suspicion as one of Caiaphas’ right-hand men, and the last person he had been seen with. The resulting PR disaster would eventually dethrone him from his desirable position of power. He did not know it yet, but the day that Caiaphas fell was the day Annas would come tumbling after.

None of this would matter in the glow of the late morning sun streaming through the windows as two lovers bickered over the best way to make waffles, feasted on the slightly burnt results, and then feasted on each other, lips pressing together repeatedly as if drawing breath from each other’s lungs.

At the back of his mind, Judas wondered if someday the stain of murder would find its way to their doorstep and to his guilty hands. But then again, there was no guilt in what he had done. if they marched him to the gallows, he would go in the knowledge that he had done what was just, rather than run from the truth.


End file.
